Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Revenge of the Probst

I couldn't make this shit up.

If you're a regular visitor, you've probably noticed that I changed my blog template. I did so in part because I was already tired of the old one, but also because I was having trouble getting it to display correctly at times. I could not figure out what the problem was, but sometimes the posts section would be pushed down below the sidebar. I knew that must mean that something was too long for the "div" (watch me using the lingo! avert your eyes from the glory of my mad html skilz!) but I couldn't find it.

Until I changed templates yesterday, when I discovered that the wrench in my works was the link included in
this post.

Yes, the link that was too long for my page was that horrible, nightmarish portal to the (fake, I still insist) Probst Penile Pictures.

I really, really hope I'm right about that whole "hell" thing

Because if I'm wrong, I'm seriously screwed.

You see, the video linked below made me laugh. Hard. The prosecution rests:


Thursday, February 23, 2006

Bite ME, Quiznos!

Your commercials repulse me, but that's not even why I despise you right now.

First, you are the only food-vending establishment within easy walking distance of my office, which, though arguably not your fault, annoys me.

Second, your flashy, over-designed menu makes me feel like I'm having a seizure in a foreign country. No matter how I stare I cannot decode it.

Third, your food, while edible, does not come nestled in a Faberge egg. There is no reason for a goddamn turkey sandwich and chips to cost seven dollars. That's a small turkey sandwich and pre-packaged chips--nothing special. No, really. It's fine for lunch, but it is nothing special.

Finally, the dumbass working your counter can't hold a wisp of thought long enough to construct the sandwich I actually ordered. Would someone please tell me what's so tricky about putting together a mediocre sandwich? I went over there today, and after ten minutes of staring at the menu and twitching I said, "Look, I can't read that thing. I just want a small turkey with swiss and mustard on wheat." How hard is that? She seemed on top of it, too, responding with a cool, "Lettuce, tomato, and onion?" To which I replied, "NO. Thank you."

Is there anything ambiguous about that conversation? I must not have the requisite objectivity for seeing it, but it's there, somewhere, because after being shaken down for seven dollars I trudged back to my office and found . . . fucking lettuce, tomato, and onion all up in my sandwich. It was that sadistic shredded lettuce, too, all tenacious and ubiquitous and ineradicable. I HATE lettuce. And once it's been on your stupid sandwich--especially after being passed through a toaster--you can't get the taste out even after scraping and picking and CURSING until there are no visible traces left.

I can see how a challenged person might be stymied by a request to add something weird to a sandwich, but this was not a complicated order. I told her what I wanted in plain speech. All she had to do was listen to my words. There wasn't even the barrier to communication commonly known as the "drive-thru"; I looked her right in the eyes.

So screw you, Quiznos. I'm not going there anymore. I'll drive.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Ryan, honey, we talked about this before.

Dear Ryan Seacrest,

Oh, Ryan. Sweetheart. I do love you, though I have no clue as to why. Perhaps it's just that you've been in my living room so long now you seem like family? That you're the most unthreatening human being ever factory assembled and gifted to the public? You're like the wee younger brother I never had. I would've totally protected you from the mean kids who beat you up after school because you were teeny and wore gingham shirts under suit jackets. I would've been happy to be your champion in that regard.

But we talked about the airbrushed face last year, right? I thought we had come to Jesus over that little problem. In the early audition rounds this year you sported your natural fairness without apology. I will admit that I noted one day that you "looked like a corpse," but you should not have assumed I was referring to your pallor; it was a comment born of loving concern for the look of haggard sleeplessness you presented, that's all. Listen to me now: You are a fair-skinned boy. There's nothing wrong with that! It looks fine! Why hide your light under an orange bushel?

Also, while I'm playing big sis, when are you going to find a nice partner and settle down? Woman, man, whatever--I just want you to be happy. I don't think that Shana Wall you've been seen with is long-term material, if you know what I mean. Besides, if you're going with the hetero thing, maybe you shouldn't have looked so aghast last night when the adorable Katharine threatened to kiss you?

Anyway, enough. Oh--speaking of last night, when you come home for Thanksgiving this year, please bring me some of what Paula was taking. She was obviously seeing the "colors" in people's voices again and I bet it was fun.

Love and air kisses,


Monday, February 20, 2006

Return of the Ass

Remember when I said this?

Did I call it, or what?

I'm sure you've heard by now about that fool Gumbel shooting his mouth off concerning how the Winter Olympics suck because there aren't enough black people.

I'm not sure what he even means by that. If he were stating an opinion about aesthetics, like maybe that white people are too hard to see in the snow or something, I would think it was weird, but whatever. He seems, though, to be saying that black people are better natural athletes than white people, and thus more exciting to watch in athletic competition, to which I respond:

1) Do you really want to bring that sentiment back into the public consciousness?

2) Are white and black the only possible kinds of people now? Or does Bryant Dumbbell lump everyone who isn't immediately identifiable as "black" in the category "white"?

God. Why does that dickweed have a job at all? Is this it? Could he go away now, please?


. . . in the love of my family and friends.

But that won't get me my Jaguar convertible, will it?

Friday, February 17, 2006

Start kissing up now, Little People

I'm off to Shreveport with my man this weekend. Gonna get RICH, dontcha know.

Nickel slots, here I come! (That's where all the real money is--it's a well kept secret. Well, it was.)

Have a great weekend!

The American Idol Top 24 doesn't completely suck

As always, there are several "winners" whose faces have never, ever appeared on my TV before, which is annoying, but I'm pleased overall, and no doubt Seacrest will bring me up to speed soon. I've decided I love Ryan Seacrest, by the way, because he has never assaulted my retinas (or my SOUL) with his nekkidness; in fact, I suspect Ryan of having plastic Ken doll bulges instead of actual fleshly ones, and I'm very comfortable with that.

Here's where things stand thus far:


My adopted son Kevin. . .

Another wee one, David Radford. . .

The Pickler. . .

Yet another tiny tot, 16-year-old Will. . .

Taylor Hicks. . .

Chris "Don't Call Me Bo Bice" Daughtry. . .

Paris Bennett
Katharine McPhee
Ace Young (Paula's next episode of Prime Time Live)
Lisa Tucker
Ayla Brown
Bucky Covington ("Bucky"??)
Patrick Hall
Elliott Yamin
Mandisa (though you have not yet earned the right to go by one name, Miss Thing)

Becky O'Donohue
"Sway" Penala
Brenna Gethers (Shut it, loudmouth. And--just to get a jump on you--they don't hate you because they're jealous. It's because you're an asshole.)
Stevie Scott
Melissa McGhee
Gedeon McKinney
Kinnik Sky
Heather Cox
Bobby Bennett

Naked Probst, a.k.a. "the horror, the horror"


There you go. Say hello to my nightmares.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

WARNING: This video is utterly revolting

I really believe that this is the most repulsive thing I've ever seen. Fear Factor has nothing on this poor bastard. View at your own risk.

What's fascinating to me about this video is how I couldn't wait to forward it to friends--people I like--even as I was fighting my gag reflex. Is it the "smell this milk I think it's off" phenomenon? Perhaps. Maybe it's just my Romantic impulse to share anything that incites a reaction, even if the reaction involves gagging. It's the Faustian drive to experience and experience and experience MORE and never be satiated.

Or I'm just a sadistic bitch who likes to gross out her friends. You make the call.

Trouble in whatever Scientologists consider paradise?

Ohhh, lovely. The title link above will take you to Pink Is the New Blog's take on the shocking rumor of Cruise and Holmes's sham relationship. Except . . . are you shocked? No?

Do Scientologists have a heaven, by the way? I know you're like, "Bitch, ever hear of Google?" and I feel that, but I already lost time watching Battlefield Earth, and I have no plans to give them any more. So if you know anything about Scientology paradise mythology drop me a line. Don't put yourself out over it or anything, but, you know, if you're not busy. Thanks.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Why am I still watching Survivor?

No, really. I have no idea. It's a boring-ass show about 85% of the time, and my visceral hatred for Jeff Probst knows no limits.

Do I have everyone's permission to stop watching now? Please?

Perhaps I should present my case in full.

Exhibit A: Probst

Put simply, Jeff Probst, the host of Survivor, may be the most obnoxious jackhole on television. I hate him and his ass face. I understand that he's trying to be the host and all, but would it kill him to shut his gaping piehole for two seconds? Why must he yell at me through every damn challenge? Yes, JEFF, I can see that she untied the rope. YOU'RE NOT PROVIDING A SERVICE FOR THE BLIND HERE, JEFF. SHUT THE FUCK UP. I actually mute the TV during challenges he irritates me so badly. I can't stand his stupid yelling.

Then there are his idiotic little catch phrases, like "Worth playing for?" after he explains the rewards and "Immunity, back up for grabs." He's so self-important and smarmy, like he really sees himself as the beating heart beneath Survivor's breast or whatever, when in actuality all he does is strike a lot of poses in his Crocodile Dundee hat and make an ass of himself. If I hunted quail with him I would shoot him in that stupid hat.

On top of all this, I now have Jeff Probst-related Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Several months ago I ran across a link online titled something innocuous like, "Jeff Probst LOL." Thinking it might provide me a laugh at his expense, I clicked. Everything kind of goes black after that (though my therapist wants to try to recover the memories as soon as she deems me ready) but I do know the link took me to a photo and the photo . . . ahhhhhhh . . . I can't . . . thephotowasprobst wasnakedprobst holdinghispenisoutforthecamera. Probst . . . penis . . . please god let that be Photoshopped. The thing is, I believe he's the kind of person who would be full enough of himself to pose for such a photo, which causes the edges of my protective denial to wobble a bit. No, I refuse. Totally Photoshopped. I could not sleep ever again if I thought I had seen Jeff Probst's actual penis. It was Photoshopped, DAMN YOU.

[below, Feel the Hate]

Exhibit B: Everything Else

It's all just gone stale, hasn't it? If we're being honest? I'm only watching now from habit, like I keep thinking something will happen if I hang in. But nothing happens. The contestants always look exactly the same. The challenges always look exactly the same. They tried to rekindle interest by starting with four tribes this season, and that lasted . . . one episode. And the point of that? No idea. Couldn't care less about "Exile Island," because zzzzzzzzzz. You had a good run, Survivor, but I think it's time.

For the dramatic series finale, you can take the vaguely racist exoticizing of Others upon which the show was erected to its logical conclusion and throw Probst into a volcano. (Oh, god, "erect" and "Probst" in the same sentence and I have to go cry now.)

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Sure it's about how you play the game, but losing still sucks

Warning: You're about to find out just how low and hateful I am. If you'd rather protect your innocence, stop reading now.

We have a family membership to the YMCA, which means Vaughn (above) gets to play their team sports without paying an extra fee. Brilliant. Somehow, though, we always end up on a team full of kids who have never, ever seen a basketball game in their lives, and while I'm all for the concept of playing for fun and fitness and blahblahblah, it gets frustrating after awhile to attend game after game and lose. . . every. . . time.

This season our team had my son and two other kids who could pick a basketball out of a lineup. ("Do you see the ball that hit you in the face, Johnny? Don't be afraid, now; it can't see you. .") The rest of the team was comprised of:

The Traveler: Not the alien guy from Star Trek: TNG who might've been cool if he hadn't liked Wesley fucking Crusher so much, just a kid whose every encounter with the ball ended with dribble, dribble, dribble, step, step, shuffle, *tweet*. Turnover. Sigh.

The Assistant Coach's Lame-o Kid: I don't know what the deal is with that family dynamic--and don't want to--but I get the feeling this guy signed up to be assistant coach so he could make his son a good player through sheer force of will. What I do know is that it's not working. For some reason beyond my ken, the coach gave this kid the ball every time it was our throw in, and EVERY TIME the little doof threw it to the other team. Even Mike (who is much, much nicer than I am) ended up hissing to me, "Why do they keep giving him the ball?" Why, indeed.

"Why Am I Here?" Kid: We've all seen kids like this, where you KNOW their parents were all, "Well, it's good exercise and we get it free with our Y membership, so why not?" And there's a part of me that totally gets that and, sure, why not? But then I remember why not: The kid does nothing but stand there looking bewildered like he wonders why all these other people are running around making so much scary noise, and it gets on my damn nerves if you must know. Do something or get off the court, 'Fraidy.

Hot Potato: Another version of the above, this poor kid never reacts to finding the ball in his hands with anything but utter horror. Last game, he was parked all alone next to the basket (where I guess he thought he was safe) and a teammate threw him the ball. He was standing right next to the basket all by himself, OK, and he never turned toward it, didn't even seem to recall that such a thing as a "basket" was in the vicinity, much less that said basket was somehow related to WHAT WE'RE ALL DOING THERE. He blanched, staring down at the ball in his hands like he might vomit onto it, and then began a frantic search for someone--anyone--to take it from him. Turnover. SIGH.

I know I'm a terrible bitch (a truth I've made my peace with over the years) but I can assure you that I never act the fool at games like some of these jackass parents you see. I just think mean things and then write them on the internet.

My son, for his part, never complains, which I appreciate, but we can see him becoming complacent and lazy about his own play. We don't have him training for the NBA or anything, by any means, but he does have aptitude and we want him to improve and grow and be challenged. I guess you get what you pay for, though. Only three more years and he can play at school.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Tom Cruise is a FREAK

I am dead serious right now. Would you just look at this picture?

I never watched Dawson's Creek and have had no reason to form an opinion of any kind about Katie Holmes, but I do know that she did not look like this before. And don't tell me it's the pregnancy because I've been pregnant my own self, and while it made me vomit and weep (both incessantly) and blow up real good it never made me stare dead-eyed into a camera like someone about to be decapitated in a hostage video. What is he DOING to her?

Maybe I watch too much Law & Order, but I feel like calling the police when I see this photo. As if her shattered visage weren't disturbing enough in itself, the juxtaposition of her obvious misery against his giant face-eating grin gives me the creeping willies. She absolutely appears to be making one last desperate doomed attempt at a psychic plea for rescue. Can't you hear her begging you to intervene? While he keeps his firm grip on her neck so she knows not to try running (again)?

The report accompanying the picture (linked above) describes a conversation between Cruise and a "friend," in which he claimed that he was tucking Katie away until his child was born. There are about twelve things going on in that statement with which I have problems, so I'm not even gonna go there, except to say that I totally believe it because he is SCARY.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Oh, no, you did NOT, Project Runway!

Are they kidding me? They chose Santino's ghastly jumpsuit over Nick's suit? I do not know any woman who would willingly put on this outfit:

No. WAY.

It's all gathery and bunchy in all the wrong places, makes lovely Kara look four months pregnant, and the whole sleeve fucking came off on the runway. It was poop on toast AND it wasn't sewn together at all! What is with their hard-on for Santino? They have let him get away with so many pieces of crap now while sending home designers who suck less. I don't even hate Santino in any personal way--I think he's kind of funny--but his clothes BLOW.

I'm the first to admit that Nick's suit for Daniel wasn't so great. His seams weren't smooth (though they did manage to HOLD TOGETHER) and, yeah, the judges were right that the pants should've had pockets. But I could see what he was going for, I think--kind of a mod Beatles look, very tight and slim, which is perfect for Daniel's slender frame. And they're giving him a hard time because the jacket didn't include a fastener while Santino's fugly jumpsuit is dropping limbs like it's suffering the final stages of leprosy ON THE RUNWAY? The suit was not that bad, is all I'm saying:

But I guess this is the end, Nick. You were kind of bitchy sometimes, maybe a bit high strung if we're being honest with each other, but your interviews were hilarious and I still love you. Auf Wiedersehen.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

A Love Song for American Idol

So tonight American Idol goes to Hollywood, where the only thing more plentiful than the sunshine is the schadenfreude. Ah, my heart swells. The early audition fiascos get all the press for general brutality, but veteran viewers know that these rounds that determine the Top 24 practically involve contestants vomiting their souls onto the stage so the judges can stamp on them. With boots. I love it.

I'm not ALL cruelty, though. Every year I fall for some poor little kid who embodies vulnerability and awkwardness (and is viciously loathed by Simon) and wring my hands as he's disemboweled on the Idol altar. Yes, I was the person who loved John Stevens two years ago and Anthony Federov last year. It's the mother in me; I can't help it.

So far this year I have begun drawing up adoption papers for Garet, the wee cowboy from a town of four people who had never sung in front of anyone or flown on an airplane:

He never flew on an airplane, people. How do you resist that? Why try? Also, at home he only sings to his turkey, and no that's not a euphemism. They showed the turkey. I know he may as well BE the turkey the way Idol is fattening him for the slaughter, but he's so earnest. My heart still has a bit of give if you poke it in the right place.

As a bonus, I found Garet a brother last night during the final episode of early auditions when I exclaimed, "Aw! He's such a little peanut head!" and my husband and son groaned, "Oh, no, here she goes."

Isn't he precious? I don't even remember his name, but he's only 16 and his little baby cheeks were bright red through his whole audition BLESS HIS HEART. He'll be the side dish at the feast, though; Simon hated him too. Ah, well. You can't protect them forever.

Update: Got his name--Kevin Covais. He and Garet both made it to the group song round, which is always a bloodbath.

Another favorite of mine (and of my husband's) made it too:

Taylor Hicks clearly doesn't need my mothering, but damn his voice is cool. Very Joe Cocker. He looks like he's having a mild stroke while he's singing, and his premature greyness puts the judges off, but we love the way he sounds.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

World Poker Tour? You mean World PECKER Tour.

Oh, World Poker Tour. Why would you do me this way?

We really enjoy the poker on television craze at my house. We'll gleefully park in front of pretty much any incarnation of this phenomenon, be it World Series of Poker, World Poker Tour, World Series of Poker Tour--whatever. We're there.

Thus, my husband and I have spent the last few nights watching Travel Channel broadcasts of the Women's World Poker Tour. I'm not sure why such a thing exists at all, honestly, since the regular tour includes women players; poker is like professional billiards in that way: Neither sex has a natural advantage that would necessitate segregated play. Are they worried that female players will become pregnant? Or that male players will be too hamstrung by their chivalric encoding to take pots from females? Whatever. We rolled with it.

And then . . . the commentators came. Mike Sexton and Vince Van Patten, to whom I paid no attention whatsoever before two days ago, are suddenly part of some conspiracy to drive me away from my beloved television forever. My list of People Who Fuel My Rage Simply By Speaking On TV just doubled, as it now includes:

  1. Jeff Probst
  2. John Madden
  3. Mike Sexton
  4. Vince Van Patten

Mike and Vince absolutely cannot get over the fact that the players in the Women's World Poker Tour are--wait for it--women! I know! They have breasts and everything, and sometimes you can kind of see them! Astounding, truly. Every other goddamn hand is a "catfight," like HOW CLEVER, and they constantly say stupid shit like "the lipstick is off now!" What does that even mean? My husband pointed out that instead of having shiny under-dressed Vegas call girls parade in with the money at the end the way they do with the men, the "ladies" (gag me) get one relatively decently dressed "popular model and actress" (uh huh) who pulls a rope that lets the money waft from the ceiling. He claims that the call girl thing only happens on television, that it's not a factor of the Tour itself but part of the televised programming. I have no problem believing this, but it still says too much about This Land of Ours that I would rather forget.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Whatever, Super Bowl Commercials

Yeah, so sue me: I don't give a flying damn about the stupid Super Bowl ads.

The hype itself has jumped the shark for me. Just hearing people natter on about the ads the next day makes me feel like Holden Caulfield, raging against the phoniness of it all and saying "goddamn" a lot. They're COMMERCIALS. They are the reason Prometheus risked everything to give us TiVo.

Before you go all, "Screw her, she's a bitter dried up fatass with no sense of humor," please understand that I do so have a sense of humor. I even think commercials are funny sometimes. This whole Super Bowl thing is just so self-conscious, though, and the ads try so hard; it makes me feel embarrassed for them, they're trying so hard. That Burger King thing? What the fuck was that?? And don't even get me started on Bud Light, which sucks bad enough in itself without torturing me with its "Have Some Delicious Bottled Patriarchy!" TV spots.

I have a nine-year-old son who excels in mathematics. I realize how naive this sounds, but I would really prefer that he made it to ten without deriving the theorum of Man = Obsession With Tits and Beer, where Beer = GCD and Tits are NOT part of the closed set "Wife." Even the energy drinks are associating their product with wife-hating Manly Manliness. What was that swill called--Full Throttle? (Jesus.) Nice shot of the guy unloading groceries with his nagging emasculating wife (Patriarchal Beer Commercial Stereotype #756) and then smashing through the white picket fence in his yard to chase after the giant phallic Full Throttle truck. To summarize: If you really want a huge dick, you have to eschew all signifiers of domesticity in favor of dangerous stimulants. Or maybe that's "if you want to BE a huge dick"--I always get those confused.

And, ha ha, yeah, the guys on the roofs. Oh, he fell through! Get it, because he was a total pussy who actually went up there to maintain a secure home for himself and his family! With no beer! So he's out of the Big Dick Club and has to be humiliated! My knee, she is bruised from the slapping. Do they not see that the message of those ads is less "men love beer" than "men are lazy deceitful jackoffs"? Are men really OK with that stereotype? Really?

Ugh. Sorry to kill everyone's buzz. I guess I'll go home and be so obnoxious to my husband that I drive him to the roof. Do I have any other options, after all?

Saturday, February 04, 2006

For those of you on the edges of your respective seats. . .

The TV tuner works!!

Mary would be so proud of me. I wish I could call her.

**I realize that she's probably not Mary anymore--no doubt they rotate designations like secret agents.**

My budding confidence even allowed me to leave the computer open long enough to pick out all the cat hairs. You always hear about the inevitability and indestructibility of the cockroach, but here's a lovely irony of cat ownership: Cockroaches don't like houses with cats in them, but the only matter in the universe more aggressive and ineradicable than roaches is cat hair. Since I'm terrified of cockroaches and only driven to (more) cursing by cat hair, I'm willing to accept the trade-off, but damn that stuff is everywhere.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

I Am The Twenty-First Century

I did something last night I'm not sure I've ever done before: I experienced a moment of penis envy.

I'd had an internal tv tuner sitting in its box in my home office for six months, and a couple of weeks ago it finally began to annoy me. It was moldering there--this very cool gadget of which I did actively pursue ownership--since July. So I followed Standard Operating Procedure for getting something done at my house:

1) Wait six months.

2) If task involves computer hardware or climbing into attic, harass husband about wanting it done.

2a) Attempt to frighten husband into compliance by breezing through house with hammer and asking, "Hey, do you know what a PCI slot looks like?"

3) Repeat at irregular intervals for approximately two weeks, and then remember that I am a grown person living in the 21st century and I should do it my damn self.

Unfortunately, the first line of the instructions (composed of language reminiscent of English but somehow not quite bringing it into focus as such) ordered me to "open computer case." Ugh. Only two months ago I had sworn never to violate my computer that way again. We bought ourselves a nice fancy new Dell in October, and by Thanksgiving it was doubleplusfucked. Of course. So I got on the phone with a lovely woman in India (who introduced herself as, like, "Mary" or something) and I swear she was either an actual saint or gloriously stoned. Someone email me, please, if you know the answer to this question, and I'm being serious: Are there programs out there for people who take calls from electronics sufferers? Courses on "Consumer Rage Pathology" and support groups for those who actually hear the gun go off during the call? Because the fabulous Mary had a demeanor that could coax anyone down from the ledge.

Our time together began with her asking me to "open computer case" and locate the memory sticks. (Me: "Ummmm. . . ") Quickly ascertaining what she was dealing with, she backed up and asked me if I could see the motherboard. ("I don't know, can I? Is it in this thing that I opened?") I swear I kept expecting her to say "fuck this," hang up on me, and hit the nearest bar, and lord knows I wouldn't have blamed her, but TWO HOURS LATER she was still with me, and you would never know from listening to her that she had just spent two hours with an imbecile who followed her every patient instruction with, "Um, OK--hold on. . ." [phone clatters to floor] [rustling and banging sounds] "Ouch!" and [muffled] "you COCKSUCKER."

At one point I asked her, "Don't you get tired of talking to morons all day?" She answered with a hilariously earnest, "You're doing just fine." God, it was funny--so sincere. Anyway, in the end she had to send a technician out to replace our memory, but I appreciate her serene help.

I didn't want to open computer case again, though, especially not all alone. But we're talking about television here, and screen caps of Judge Judy litigants, so I steeled myself. And once I peered in I saw. . . the only place my tuner card could possibly fit. And then I noted how I could slide this cover thing out so the jacks on the tuner card would be accessible once it was in. I took a deep breath, aligned the card with the slot, and shoved that mother in there until I heard "CLICK."

Oh, wow, that was satisfying.

Today, of course, since nothing can just work the way it's supposed to out of the gate, I have to make another visit to Radio Shack to find an adapter that will allow me to hook up the antenna. I don't care, though, because at least that bitch is IN.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

On the use of "Belial" in the English

Ever see that movie Basket Case? It's about this guy who's born with his jacked up twin brother attached to his side. You may think the awesometer maxes out right there--I mean, how could it get better than that? Why should it even have to?--but, oh, my friends, it does.

The kid's parents hire a back-alley veterinarian to come to their house and saw the embarrassing twin bits off, and then they dump it in the garbage and prepare to move on with their lives. Thing is, they don't understand that the kid and the twinlet have this, like, psychic connection, so the kid gets the cries of help in his head and sneaks out to the trash can in the night--after what you must imagine is pretty major surgery, mind you--and rescues his now physically emancipated home-bro. Then he does just what you or I would do under the same circumstances (admit it): puts the little dude in a basket and runs away from home.

I can't help thinking Basket Case represents fantastic cinema, OK, because this, frankly, is how I was raised. I'm not trying to cast blame but, if I'm being honest, my family is fucked up. Exhibits A and B: The two most recent movies I've viewed with my mom and step-dad? Both Sci-Fi Channel Originals, one named Mansquito, for Christ's sake, and the other Manticore.

Check out the Mansquito if you dare:

OK? I mean, seriously.

This level of cheesetastic horror is so much a part of our family narrative that we routinely use the word "Belial" in familial communications. We have, in fact, forgotten, I think, that it's not an actual word. You see, Belial is the name of the maniacal rubber twin from Basket Case. So, say you're in some kind of public seating, like in a theater or airplane, and a rude or just plain expansive person next to you insists upon taking half of your space in addition to his. You may use the noun form and refer to this nuisance simply as a Belial, or you could choose to employ the verb form and complain, "My seatmate was totally Belialing me the whole flight."

Either way, you are comparing the person to a nasty malformed Siamese twin thing that is so all over you it would take an unscrupulous veterinarian with a sharp scalpel to detach him.

No doubt you see the versatility of this term already. Belial status can be realized more figuratively as well: a dumped boyfriend/girlfriend who refuses to go away? Belial. A co-worker who spends more time yapping at your desk than working at hers? Ditto.

The best part, obviously, is that we can often get away with muttering "I've got a real Belial here" to each other right in front of the Belial in question, since who's going to know what the hell that means?

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